


Yours for the taking

by Mraowface



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A brief course in British biscuitry, Abusive levels of italics, Alternate Universe - Human, As if I'd write an AU without it..., BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Constant Hypomania Aziraphale, Constant mention of biscuits, Crowley is adorable trash, Crowley's inevitably tragic backstory, Crowley's latent food fetish, Eventual Smut, Feral Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hapless Crowley, M/M, Many many biscuits, This author supports you in your chasing hypomania dream, manic pixie dream aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26367208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mraowface/pseuds/Mraowface
Summary: All Crowley wants is to steal this one book and get on with his life.  But a terrifyingly angelic bookshop owner has other ideas...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 171
Kudos: 183





	1. Jammy Dodgers

Crowley was not a natural born thief. He had in fact been jittering around the bookshop for a good twenty minutes, trying to summon the nerve to steal a single book. Finally, when he'd taken a nice deep breath, he shoved the book inside his jacket.

“OI!”

On reflection, maybe the thin, faux leather jacket had been a bad look for today. It really didn't do much to conceal a solidly built hardback, and now a burly and _very_ pissed off looking man was bearing down on him. Since when did musty old bookshops come with security guards?!

“What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?” The man had grabbed him by the shoulders now. Fuck indeed.

Crowley's face paled as he tried to think of a way out of the situation. It really wasn't looking good.

Then some kind of dazzlingly beige creature came swooping in.

“Derek, _please_ get your hands off my new assistant.” The apparition gently shooed away the offending hands on Crowley's shoulders.

“Do come along, dear. I want to explain the seventeenth century filing system.” Now Crowley was being ushered into the back of the shop, as the strange man called over his shoulder “Be a love and mind the shop for me, Derek. I won't be but a minute!”

“ _So_ sorry about that. He's ex TA, gets a bit excitable sometimes. Lovely man though, he has the most delightful bone china collection!”

They drew to a halt in the back room, and Crowley found himself being lightly dusted off post-scuffle. He still hadn't spoken a word.

“ _Well_ , no harm done! Now let me see what you have there...” The man-shaped being (Crowley was feeling very uncertain about reality right now) gently took the book from his hands.

“Oh dear... It's not very valuable, I'm afraid. You're really not very experienced in this, are you?”

There was a long pause, before Crowley realised it was his turn to speak.

“Uh... No.”

Well that was certainly worth waiting for. Excellent defence. No way the man would be calling the police after an explanation like that.

“It has lovely colour plates, but I'm afraid the spine is _quite_ severely discoloured, and have you seen the dogears on some of these pages? I really only keep it because the flowers are so pretty. You wouldn't have got much for it at all...”

“I... I wasn't going to sell it,” Crowley confessed. As if that was even believable.

But the man's face started practically _glowing_. Angel. That was the word Crowley's brain had been searching for. The man looked like an angel.

“No. You weren't, were you? Now, you sit down on the sofa here, and I'll brew us a pot of tea. Back in a sec!”

And then the angelic man _left the book on the coffee table, and disappeared through another door._ Did he _want_ Crowley to steal it?

_Fuck_. What the actual fuck? Crowley had no frame of reference for this. What the _hell_ was he supposed to do now? In the absence of any better ideas, Crowley sat on his hands and tried to take up as little space as possible.

“ _Well_ now. I thought some Ceylon might perk us up a bit.” The angel set down a tea tray, replete with tea pot,1 milk, two mugs and a plateful of jammy dodgers.

“I'm Aziraphale, by the way.” The angel (or apparition; Crowley was keeping an open mind) held out a hand.

After Crowley had awkwardly extracted a hand from under his bony arse, he shook hands with Aziraphale the angel.

“Crowley. I'm Crowley.”

“Well, it's a _pleasure_ to meet you, my dear. Now, in actual fact I use _several_ filing systems. _Please_ don't tell the customers though, I don't want to give them too much of an advantage. Fiction from the 1840's to 1870's is kept on the shelving immediately to the left of the till, unless if it is valued over £50. Modern is managed continentally, with the better authors on the higher shelves. Now-”

“What.”

“I'm sorry, should I slow down?” Aziraphale looked mildly concerned.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“The job! If you're to be my new assistant, you simply _must_ understand at least the basics of my categorisation... Unless if it would be better if you _didn't?_ ”2

Crowley let the utterly confused expression on his face speak for itself, meanwhile Aziraphale poured the tea.

“Well, dear, I _did_ tell Derek you were my assistant. And I simply _abhor_ lying.3 So you _will_ come back tomorrow at around eleven-ish, won't you? Better make it quarter past.”

“You open at eleven?”

“Oh heavens, no. Elevenses is the mark of true civilisation. We can have some of that lovely lemon and poppyseed cake I bought today. _Do_ say you'll come back?”

“Uh... Yeah.” How was Crowley supposed to do anything other than abjectly agree to anything this angel said?

“ _Splendid_.”

Aziraphale handed him a mug and a jammy dodger. That's when Crowley noticed the other man's mug had _fucking angel wings on it._

Crowley didn't usually believe in signs, or angels, or tartan tea cosies so hideous that even his nan would have distastefully disposed of them at the nearest charity shop. But the universe really couldn't put it much clearer: tomorrow he would be coming back to work at AZ Fell and Co.

1Snug in a horrid tartan tea cosy

2Aziraphale had suddenly realised the obfuscatory possibilities of several _competing_ filing systems

3Lying to dentists doesn't count. Have another jammy dodger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: jammy dodger?


	2. Custard Creams

Crowley arrived at A.Z. Fell and Co again the next day, hot and sweaty from the hour's walk to Soho. It wouldn't make a very good impression. Not that he wanted to make a good impression. Aziraphale was _clearly_ insane. Which was why it made complete sense why Crowley was feeling so nervous. Still, he had a job to do. Apparently. So he quickly tamped down all emotions,1 and knocked on the door.

Aziraphale was confusingly effusive in his greeting.

“Oh my _dear_ fellow, you came back! Now, _do_ come in and try the lemon and poppyseed.”

Once again, Crowley found himself propelled into the back room, and forcibly gifted with a huge slice of cake.

“Earl grey today. Milk, or lemon?”

“Uh...” Crowley, who usually drank coffee, was at a loss.

“Milk then. Do try the cake, it's simply _delicious_.”

“I... I don't eat cake. Much.” Why was it so hard to speak in complete sentences around this man??2

Aziraphale raked his eyes up and down Crowley, alarmingly. “Yes, my dear, I can see that. But please _do_ try just a mouthful?”

Well... A single mouthful of cake seemed like a decent rate of exchange for not being arrested. Crowley picked up a forkful and shoved it elegantly into his gob.

Aziraphale apparently took this as a signal to start speaking again rapidly.

“So, I explained the rudiments of the filing system yesterday. But I've thought it over and I really do believe that a _rival_ filing system of your own devising will give me _quite_ the advantage! So please consider that as a creative project. Just, _please_ no reverse alphabetisation. I tried that once, and it gave me a headache.

“Now, my hours are all explained on the sign on the door. But really you should ignore that also. If you come promptly at eleven-ish every weekday, I will see that you are _well fed 3_ and watered.

“Moving on. The till system is really quite simple. I'll put you in charge of that first.”

Crowley won the battle against choking on his single mouthful of cake. “You want me on the _till?_ ”

“Whyever not? It's simple enough!”

“Aziraphale, you seem like a lovely person, but... You do realise you caught me stealing from your shop yesterday, and now you're putting me in charge of a _cash register?_ ”

“Oh Heavens, there's no _money_ in it!” Aziraphale looked quite aghast at the thought.

“What... What's in there then?”

“Custard creams. No, I tell a lie – there may also be some bourbons. I do almost always prefer the custard creams, but there's something to be said for the occasional hit of chocolate...” At this Aziraphale drifted into a brief chocolate-induced haze.

The man was insane. Quite _literally_ insane. Still, just leaving would be – he couldn't just _leave_. So Crowley very slowly, making no sudden movements, ate another mouthful of cake. It was pretty good, for cake.

He swallowed. “So... How do people pay for books then?”

“ _What?_ ” Aziraphale looked mortally offended. “Now, let us get one thing clear. You must never. Ever. Sell a book. If any customer causes trouble, then come to me. But I'm hoping you'll show a little initiative here, and put them off to the best of your abilities. Now, drink up, and I'll show you how to get the biscuits out the till.”

Aziraphale, true to his word, showed Crowley how to get the biscuits out the till. There really were biscuits in the till. Apparently, Crowley was to be trusted not only with sweeping the crumbs out once a week,4 but also with the hallowed task of refilling the till with the main stockpile in the kitchenette.

Then, terrifyingly, the madman flipped the sign on the shop door, and they were open. The lunatic promptly vanished, although hints of cream and beige could occasionally be spotted lurking between the shelves.

The first hour was pretty dull. A few browsers. Crowley amused himself by swapping a few books around at random, but mostly he stuck near the till. At last, a customer approached.

He was middle aged, pushy looking. Arrogant hairstyle. He held out a Penguin classic.

“I'll take this one.”

Crowley duly took the book from him, and glanced at the cover. Frankly, most books looked the same to him. “Sorry, can't help you. Till's broken.”

The man glared, and fiddled with his wallet. “I have exact change. Here.”

Crowley ignored the handful of cash, and stared at the book more closely. He grabbed a pencil, and scrawled a couple of noughts onto the price sticker. “Price just went up. See?” He pointed out the figures, helpfully.

The man scowled furiously, before capitulating in the face of Crowley's impassive stare. “ _Well!_ I certainly won't be coming _here_ again!” And with that, the outraged customer stormed out.

There was a rustle of tartan and mid-tone beige from behind a nearby shelf, and suddenly Crowley was being enveloped in a hug.

“Crowley my dear, that was _marvellous!_ You're a born shopkeeper. Now, let's close up and have a quick snack before lunch.”

And at that, Aziraphale popped open the till with a ker-ching, and snaffled a pair of custard creams.

1Years of practice

2Not that the man versus angel/apparition debate had been fully settled. And it would have been ridiculous to stay up till 4am arguing the tos and fros of that

3Pointed glare from Aziraphale, studiously ignored by Crowley

4“ _Please_ don't feed the mice in the kitchen. I'm trying to wean them off refined sugar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: come snaffle my custard creams?


	3. Party Rings

Somehow, Crowley had made it through almost a week of working at Aziraphale's so-called bookshop. He had successfully thwarted five book sales, made lifetime enemies of three little old ladies, and even made his peace with Derek the ex TA.

Aziraphale – _Angel_ , his brain helpfully supplied – remained a mystery. He was absent-minded, except when it suited him not to be. Kind and generous to a fault, but he bitched and gossiped about his fellow shopkeepers in a manner that would have put the Daily Mail to shame. Crowley strongly suspected he didn't need reading glasses at all.

And now Aziraphale, having “just popped out to the shops for five minutes,1 you'll be just _fine_ without me,” returned and slapped a packet of party rings down on the counter triumphantly.

“Uh...” said Crowley, eloquently.

“Close up the shop, we're celebrating.”

Crowley dutifully checked round the shop for rogue customers, flipped the sign and locked the door. It was around ten to three.

“Come along now, I brought treats!”

Once more into the back room. Crowley was gestured onto the sofa, and watched as Aziraphale unpacked his shopping. It appeared to consist of four bottles of wine (red), two more packets of biscuits (also party rings), and one children's birthday card (cartoon snake-themed) stuffed to the brim with cash.

Crowley discovered this as the angel passed him the envelope and made enthusiastic hand signals for him to open it. There was something in the region of £350 inside.

“Aziraphale... what is this?”

“Your wages! I've always paid the real living wage2 and – forgive me for being presumptuous – I thought you might want to be paid weekly.”

Frankly, Crowley was more than a little stunned. It had crossed his mind to wonder whether he was getting paid for any of this, but he'd pushed that thought away and passed his first week at the shop in something of a daze. To suddenly be presented with that much money was... overwhelming, to say the least.

“I don't – you're not a drug dealer, are you?”

“Heavens, no! It seems like a very dangerous profession, and the chemicals might damage the books. Now, wine? You do drink, don't you?”

“Yeah, Angel, I drink.” _Fuck_. He was _not_ supposed to say that word out loud. Still, Aziraphale just bustled off to fetch some glasses, making no comment about Crowley's far too intimate word choice.

Half of a heated conversation floated through from the kitchenette. Something about respecting personal boundaries and... gorgonzola??

Aziraphale soon breezed back in. “ _So_ sorry about that – the mice and I were just having a little _discussion_. They're simply not responding appropriately, I may well have to change my methods...” He set the wine glasses down on the overcrowded coffee table and patted a cheap-looking hardback book. It said, in big red letters, 'How to Train your Dog in Just Six Weeks!” and featured a smiling golden retriever on the cover.

“You have pet mice?”

“Absolutely not! We merely occupy the same kitchen, although _some_ of us make more _considerate_ neighbours.” At this he cast a glare through the doorway at unseen foes. “Now, enough of that. We're celebrating!”

Crowley glanced uncertainly at the card. “It's not actually my birthday, you know.”

“Oh, I know my dear – the little fellow just reminded me of you. No, we're celebrating your first week! Four days, and not a book sold!”

At some point, Crowley would have to ask how he stayed in business. But for now, it was strangely soothing to slouch ever more into the sofa, putting away wine and listening to Aziraphale's chatter. The man could talk for England.3

Aziraphale was part-way through a bizarre anecdote about some sex workers and a very open minded lady from the Women's Institute – it seemed that he was friends with absolutely everyone4 \- and Crowley had to acknowledge that they were both on the way to getting utterly pissed. Perhaps party rings were not overly absorbent of alcohol after all.

Suddenly, Aziraphale interrupted himself. “I have something! For you. Now where is it... Aha!” With that he drew out a parcel from under the table. It was in tartan wrapping paper. Hideous.

“It's not my birthday...” Crowley felt like he ought to reiterate.

“Open it!” Aziraphale looked zealously excited, so Crowley duly ripped open the paper.

It was the book. The one he'd tried to steal. Crowley tried not to cry.

“Angel – Aziraphale – I don't deserve this. I... I don't understand any of this. You've just been so -” Crowley started sobbing, just a little “- so good to me, and I don't...”

At this point Aziraphale began to hiccup.

Crowley continued, unaware. “I've never stolen anything before. Never. Well, almost never. But... I just needed something to keep me going. I -” _hiccup_ “- I can't keep plants where I'm staying. And I miss them. I thought looking at the drawings would help... Fuck, I don't know what to say. You've been _so_ kind and...”

At this point Crowley realised that Aziraphale was frantically waving and choking between hiccups. “Fuck, Angel, are you ok? Can I -”

Aziraphale gestured him over to the armchair. When Crowley followed his waving, the angel grabbed him by the hands, and positioned his fingers to press against Aziraphale's ears. He then swiftly downed an entire (large) glassful of wine, and held his breath for several seconds after.

“Got it! Best way to cure hiccups – my granny swore by it. Now... how about another biscuit?”

Crowley surreptitiously wiped away a stray tear, and nibbled at the garishly iced biscuit. Working for Aziraphale was proving to be a bit of an emotional roller coaster.

In keeping with the theme, when the wine ran out5 and they decided to call it a night, Aziraphale pulled him into a squeezing hug that lasted a full twenty seconds. Crowley was drunk enough just to relax into it (although not so drunk that he didn't notice how damn _good_ Aziraphale smelled). Then he gave him a quick peck on the cheek, bundled him into a taxi, and disappeared back into the shop with an upbeat 'cheerio.'

The man was some kind of nineteenth-century force of nature.

1An hour and three quarters

2Or would have, had he ever had an assistant before

3Assuming that England must be good at _something_

4Except for his neighbours

5And the supplementary extra bottles of wine Aziraphale located

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: you're sweeter than a party ring...


	4. Wagon Wheels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: non graphic mention of past abuse

Crowley was getting used to the routine of the shop. Roll in around eleven-ish. Be fed tea, cake and/or biscuits. Listen to Aziraphale enthuse about whatever novel he'd stayed up half the night reading. Sweep up biscuit crumbs, to angry mouse squeakings. Occasionally deal with customers. Never. Ever. Sell books.

It was, in fact, going altogether _too well_.

So Crowley really shouldn't have been surprised when Fate decided to bite him on the arse again. He was alone in the shop (Aziraphale had announced “Battenberg!” and swiftly exited), fiddling with the poetry filing system and weighing up whether the angel had actually worked out he was dyslexic yet.

He'd just come to the conclusion that Aziraphale would see it as an 'important advantage in the thwarting of customer expectations' – or some such thing – when an angry looking man barged his way in through the door. Definitely a candidate for high blood pressure.

The new customer's prospects of future heart attack or stroke were soon driven from his mind though, when the man marched up to the counter and started yelling. Had Crowley been listening, he'd have been treated to a delightfully half-baked rant about customer service, and A.Z. Fell's failings therein. Crowley was not listening though, being much more busy sliding to the floor and curling up in a foetal position. All he could hear was fucking screaming.

At some point he felt a hand on his shoulder, and flinched instinctively. But he could dimly hear Aziraphale's voice, murmuring soothingly. It was just about enough to bring him back to the edge of reality, and he watched himself be helped to stand, and stagger gracelessly into the back room.

There he was gently pushed onto the sofa, and swaddled in an abomination of a tartan blanket. Aziraphale bustled off to make tea, leaving Crowley to sit numbly for a couple of minutes.

The angel swiftly returned with tea and (inevitably) biscuits. He ripped open the plastic wrapper on one of them. “Eat this. It's a wagon wheel.”

Crowley took the biscuit, and gazed blankly at it.

“Eat it. It'll help. Take a bite, and focus on how it feels in your mouth. The texture and the sweetness of it. Go on.”

Reluctantly, Crowley obeyed. It did help, sort of. He felt slightly less like he was watching other people exist, and a little more like just _maybe_ he was actually connected to his body.

“That's it. Take another bite.”

Doing what Aziraphale said seemed like the path of least resistance, so Crowley took another bite, and thought about the texture. Biscuit, and marshmallowy. Tasted like crap, to be honest, but some of the feeling was returning to his limbs, and he could hear Aziraphale's voice more clearly.

Aziraphale was spouting superlative praises at Crowley's biscuit-eating ability. Under other circumstances, it would have been deeply embarrassing. As it was, Crowley settled for just eating the biscuit.

“ _Excellent_. Now, I've made you some hot sweet tea. It's good for you.”

Crowley must have made a face at this point, because he could feel the angel glaring.

“Just because I don't know _why_ it's good for you, doesn't mean it isn't!”

You couldn't argue with that logic. Crowley took the tea in both hands, trying not to shake too much. The warmth of it in his hands was grounding.

“You're doing _so_ well. Now, can I interest you in another wagon wheel? It's got jam in!” Aziraphale pointed at the packet, to illustrate. Failing in his temptation, Aziraphale darted off to retrieve his abandoned battenberg, and began cutting slices, breaking them into their constituent pink and yellow squares, and eating them. Pink, then yellow. Then another slice.

Interspersed with this, he bitched about the woman at the post office. And Mr Dawood down the road. And people carrying oversized Starbucks cups. Crowley let it all wash over him, as he sipped at his oversweet tea.

Eventually, Crowley was feeling normal enough to realise that Aziraphale had at no point asked him what happened. Or in any way treated him like it was abnormal to just fall apart like that.

Crowley withstood another twenty minutes of irrelevant chatter before he cracked under the weight of the sheer lack of intrusion.

“It was... it's because of my ex.”

Aziraphale had fallen silent, listening.

“He – he shouted at me. A lot. It just... it all came rushing back.” Crowley curled in on himself a little more, cradling the mug in his hands.

“Crowley, did he... did he hurt you?”

A single, painful nod. “Yeah. A few times.”

Aziraphale's face darkened, but his voice remained light and cheerful as ever. “Right. I think we'd better get you home and safe, so you can rest. Does that sound good?”

Crowley nodded in response.

“Now, what was the name of the friend you're staying with?”

“Anathema.”

With Crowley's permission, Aziraphale called Anathema and arranged for her to come pick him up in her boyfriend's horrible old car.

While they were waiting, Aziraphale assured him that he didn't have to come in tomorrow, but if he _did_ want to, then he knew 'just the thing' they could do for a change. It was probably biscuits.

Crowley did manage to drag himself in the next day, despite the threat of impending forced biscuitry.

As it turned out, Aziraphale had _not_ gone down the obvious biscuit-themed route. Instead, he ushered Crowley back out of the shop, and onto a bus.

Slightly longer than necessary later,1 they arrived at Kew Gardens. Before Crowley could react in the slightest, Aziraphale had quickly fussed with the tickets and got them inside.

It was... amazing. Crowley couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so at peace. They wandered round, Aziraphale innocuously commenting things like “Oh look, a daffodil!”2 that Crowley would correct him on, and explain what it actually was. He could tell exactly what the bastard was doing, but somehow ended up talking away about orchids and monkey puzzle trees, and no, Aziraphale, that's _not_ a snake.3

Sometimes they'd both fall silent and Crowley would just breathe, surrounded by plants and trees. Yesterday's meltdown felt almost erased.

Several hours later (after Aziraphale's stomach rumbled loudly, and wasn't assuaged by the pocketful of biscuits he'd snuck in), they decided to leave, via the gift shop. Aziraphale insisted.4

Life felt distinctly less shit today.

1Aziraphale got distracted by a hot chocolate ad, and missed their stop

2It was a pitcher plant

3It was a garden hose

4And then got upset that there weren't enough toy animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: OH LOOK!! A SNAKE 🐍


	5. Pink Wafers

Crowley was not used to talking about his problems. Or having someone to talk to about them. But fuck it, new leaf.

“I think I like him.”

“You _definitely_ like him.” Anathema sounded confident, as always.

“How can you tell?”

“Crowley, you're speaking in complete sentences. And they always contain words like 'beige' and 'angel.' And 'biscuits.' Dude really seems to like biscuits.”

Crowley just groaned. He'd eaten _so_ many biscuits.1

“I think it's a good thing.”

“It's not. You said – you said that I had to heal or something. I shouldn't go round _liking_ people.”

“You _are_ healing. You're talking more, getting out of bed in the morning... I think he's helping.

“Right, Newt?” Anathema prodded Newton, who unfolded from her side.

“Uh... Yeah. What Anathema said.”

Ok. Go back into work, act normal, don't sell books. Don't think of unfeasible crushes. Go in the back room, sit down, eat some biscuits. Aziraphale likes it when you eat biscuits.

Today it was pink wafers. With a pink panther on the packaging. Aziraphale had clearly tucked in already, judging by the fine dusting of pink crumbs down his velvet waistcoat.

“ _There_ you are, my dear. We were getting quite worried.”

“We?”2

In response to Crowley's question, Anathema swiftly emerged from the kitchen carrying a pot of Assam.

“What – how did you even get here?? I left _before_ you.”

“Aziraphale and I have been having a _lovely_ conversation. Did you know he's the foremost collector of books of prophecy in all of England?”

Aziraphale looked appropriately smug. “Well, it _does_ hold a particular interest for me. And Anathema has offered to tell my fortune! She's brewing the tea leaves especially. Madame Tracey usually does me, but she's been frightfully busy lately...”

Today was rapidly spiralling out of control. “Madame Tracey the _brothel_ owner round the corner?”

“Madame Tracey is a dear, dear lady, and I happen to be her landlord. She never misses a payment, and she's really _very_ good with the tarot cards...”

So _that_ was where Aziraphale got his money from. Crowley mentally added 'pimp by proxy' to the list of Aziraphale/Angel unexpected attributes.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was dishing out pink wafer biscuits. Because Crowley wasn't paying attention, he got three. They were the most vile biscuit he'd tried by far. _And_ the pink dust got all over his denim.

Crowley crunched in near-silence, while Anathema 'read Aziraphale's aura.'

“Well, you're _very_ kind-hearted. Except for that thing with the neighbourhood watch. Did you really need to do that?3 Anyway. I can see that you're a gentle soul. _Very_ dependable. Quite a catch, in fact!”

At this point, Crowley decided he'd in fact died of shame. When this proved not to be the case, he slurped his tea in chagrin.

The tea leaf reading was _awful_. Aziraphale got really into it, and kept making little 'spooky' gestures with his fingers. And Anathema was really pushing things with her ever-more-thinly veiled references to Crowley and their 'entwined fortunes.'

Halfway through the reading Crowley stood up abruptly. “I have to.” He paused to actually think of an excuse. “Go open the shop! You said. That... Mrs Simmonds always comes in on Fridays for her afternoon nap. So.”4

He fled.

Anathema eventually left. The ordeal wasn't over yet though. Aziraphale seemed all _happy_. He hummed all day, and even threw in the occasional _wiggle_ , which left Crowley feeling hot and uncomfortable in an indefinable way.

Still. Crowley had a job to do, and he would do it badly. He'd finally worked out a filing system that really worked for him: clashing colour schemes. He put the red spines next to the green, and the yellow next to the purple. He'd really had to mash up the genres in order to get a good range of colours, but Aziraphale had assured him that it was all for the better. The result was an exquisitely tuned eyesore.

He worked to the bronchial snores of Mrs Simmonds. It was all fine, mostly, until Aziraphale got the step-stool out, and started pottering amongst the higher shelves.

The _arse_ on him. Fuuuuuuuck. It was a good thing nobody else conscious was in the shop, because Crowley was _staring_. And yeah, it turned out his dick _wasn't_ permanently broken. Nice to know, but it would be great if it learned about _inappropriate contexts_...

Aziraphale wiggled again as he got down from the step-stool. Crowley was irredeemably doomed.

Irredeemably doomed as he was, Crowley was quite relieved when Aziraphale called it a day, and announced “It's time to get drunk!”

Crowley was beginning to suspect that every Friday night was booze night. He really saw very little problem with that.

So he slumped in his habitual place on the sofa. Aziraphale fetched wine and glasses from the kitchen.5

They did at least manage to order some proper food this time. Chinese, because Aziraphale fancied the pineapple fritters. Crowley tapped the order out on his phone, while Aziraphale excitedly exclaimed things like “And wontons! And that nice crispy seaweed...”

The 'nice crispy seaweed' was full of sugar. Aziraphale loved it.

With equal excitement, the angel then yelled “Presents!!!”

It still wasn't Crowley's birthday.

Nevertheless, Aziraphale fetched the presents from the kitchen. A packet of pink wafers,6 and a potted plant.

“What – what's that?”

“It's an orchid! I think. Is it?? I'm _sure_ the nice man in the shop said it was... Anyway. It's for you.”

He was giving Crowley a flowering plant. Time to engage brain death.

“Ngk.”

“The man said it was called a _jewel_ orchid. Do you like it?”

Crowley frantically tried to reboot his brain. “I... I can't keep it. I'm sleeping on Anathema's sofa. There's no room...”

“Oh! I forgot to say – I thought you could keep it here. It's yours, of course, but I rather thought it would be nice to have it in the back room. The mice will _not_ touch it, I've made it _quite_ clear to Boudicea... Oh, _do_ say you'll keep it...”

Before Crowley could respond, there was a crash from the front of the shop.

They'd forgotten all about Mrs Simmonds.

1Also six slices of cake, partial or whole, and three jam tarts. Aziraphale didn't appear to believe in savoury food

2Was he referring to the mice as if they were real people again?

3He absolutely did

4Aziraphale operated as a part-time day centre for homeless people on a case-by-case basis. The occasional smells really drove away the other customers

5“No no, please don't help. The mice have gone a bit feral. I think it's this new leader of theirs...”

6“Because you liked the first one so much”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: our fortune lies forever entwined...


	6. Christmas assortment

This was getting out of hand. Crowley could _not_ stop staring at Aziraphale. Or more specifically, his lips. Words like 'plump' and 'delicious' kept coming inconveniently to mind. It was Anathema's fault, for encouraging him. All this healthy processing of emotions just wasn't right.

Aziraphale had to have noticed. On the one hand, the angel's behaviour hadn't changed in the slightest. On the other, the angel was neither blind nor stupid. He'd _definitely_ noticed. But, for reasons best known to Aziraphale, he was continuing to act as his usual erratic self. Errands were run, customers conspired against, and for one entire afternoon they shut down the shop while Crowley showed him videos of mice running miniature assault courses.

Everything was normal enough, up until a certain Thursday morning. Aziraphale seemed _nervous_. He put _four_ spoons of sugar in his morning tea. Which was excessive, even for him. He picked up and immediately put down the same book of Chilean poetry five times without reading a word. And when Crowley asked if he was ok, Aziraphale positively _squeaked_ in response.

He then cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, my dear. I'll be _quite_ alright in just a minute. Now... biscuits!”

Aziraphale picked up a Christmas-themed tin of assorted biscuits. It was not Christmas.1 He opened it anyway.

“ _This_ biscuit is the best one in the box.” He pointed to a gold foil-wrapped biscuit. “You only ever get them in these assortments, and they're _delicious_.2 I want you to have it.” And he proffered the tin to Crowley.

“But... it's your favourite.”

“Yes, my dear. Take it.” He made encouraging little gesturing movements with the outstretched tin.

This felt a little weird. Still, Crowley took the emotionally laden foil-wrapped biscuit.

Aziraphale then watched intently as Crowley slowly unwrapped it. Yep, definitely weird. Still, Crowley hated to disappoint...3 so he scrunched up the foil and ate the biscuit.

This prompted an absolute _beam_ of delight from the angel, who had also somehow managed to consume three entire biscuits while Crowley had only just about eaten one.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah, angel?” Crowley said through a mouthful of crumbs.

“Would you like it if I kissed you?”

Crowley spluttered out a shocked breath,4 and narrowly avoided wheezing his way into a surprise panic attack. It was a close run thing. _That_ would have been fucking embarrassing.

Instead, he breathed deeply several times, and swallowed the damn biscuit.

“Yeah... that – that sounds nice.”

“ _Delightful!_ Would now be convenient?”

At this point Crowley gave up on words entirely, and just nodded.

Then Aziraphale was getting up from his armchair, and was suddenly perched on the sofa next to him. This may or may not have been a hyper-realistic dream brought on by Anathema's American cooking. But it definitely felt real enough when Aziraphale brushed a hand gently against his cheek, encouraging him to turn face-on. Crowley was _absolutely_ not going to have a panic attack. _Definitely_ not.

When Crowley felt Aziraphale's lips on his, it was simultaneously wonderful and terrifying. He could sense his body reacting happily to the attention and handily responding appropriately, while an entirely separate part of his brain was having an absolute fit.

Still, he was _not_ going to ruin this. No matter what his bastard brain thought. So he tried to stay anchored to the present. Senses. That was supposed to help. Focus on senses. Aziraphale smelled _nice_. Sweet, obviously, but there was also the scent of tea and old books. Soothing. Taste was similar. Aziraphale had clearly been at the shortbread. Touch: Aziraphale's hair was _beautifully_ soft. Crowley did not recall telling his hands to end up there, but really he had no complaints. Neither did Aziraphale, from what he could tell with his eyes closed. That had just happened automatically, and ruled out sight. And sound: tiny breathy moans, and maybe some excited squeaking noises on the edge of his hearing? He might just have been imagining that one.5

With the panic attack mainly averted, Crowley did manage to appreciate how _good_ it all felt. Those soft, demanding lips, the way Aziraphale's hand was stroking the back of his neck... _Fuck_. There was no way Crowley's fantasies could have lived up to the reality of being kissed by Aziraphale.

Aziraphale drew back again eventually, although he left a hand cupping Crowley's chin.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Ok, so Crowley might have been shaking a bit. Did not notice that one. Still, he felt happy, in a completely overwhelmed sort of way. So he said so.

“Yeah. Just... it's a lot. I'm good though.”

“Oh, you sweet thing.” And Aziraphale was drawing him into a gentle hug. Suddenly, everything just felt _right_. The tension in Crowley's body collapsed, leaving him in a puddle of limbs held up by an angel. _Fuck_. This, he realised, was exactly where he was supposed to be.

This became a part of their regular morning routine. Crowley would arrive, they would drink tea and consume an array of biscuits with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and... they would kiss. Aziraphale asked for permission each and every time, which was a bit odd, but kind of nice. Crowley knew that as things were he gave off the impression of being a bit fragile, and it wasn't actually horrible to have Aziraphale fuss over him so much.

And the kissing was _fantastic_. Sometimes Crowley would feel dizzy from the intensity of it all, and Aziraphale would laugh gently and hold him close.

This was worth _any_ number of 'I told you so's from Anathema.

1Which in no way implies that he had a secret mouse-proof biscuit stash cupboard filled to the brim with assorted holiday-themed biscuits

2Which would explain why he'd already pilfered the first one

3Well, certain people

4There may have been a few crumbs flying

5He was not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: *excited squeaking*


	7. Tunnock's Teacakes

It had been a blissful couple of weeks. Things with Aziraphale were really fucking good. Ok, so they hadn't officially agreed that they were dating. Or been on any dates. But the kissing was _fantastic_.

So when Crowley stepped into the back room on a bright Friday morning to find a definitely Weird atmosphere, he promptly turned around and walked right out again before even attempting to analyse what was going on.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale had spotted him.

“Come back! I have wonderful news. Well. I have _hopefully_ wonderful news!”

Frankly, Crowley was still petrified. But he tentatively made his way back into the room.

“ _Do_ sit down, my dear! Have a Tunnock's teacake.”

Crowley gingerly took the proffered teacake,1 but settled for just holding it rather than unwrapping the thing. He really did have to tell Aziraphale that he didn't actually like biscuits.

“ _Wonderful_ news! I've received an invitation to Uriel's daughter's baptism.” He waved a tastefully ostentatious cream and gold piece of card in the air.

“Uh... great?” It didn't sound particularly wondrous to Crowley, but whatever made the angel happy.

“And I was _hoping_ , my dear, to write back _accepting_ the invitation, on behalf of myself and my boyfriend. That's you, Crowley.” The last bit was added when Crowley's face failed to change from being entirely blank.

“You... wha...” Crowley gawped, and accidentally crushed the top of his teacake.

“Oh dear, you'll lose all the marshmallow, and that's _really_ the best bit. Now, as I was saying. I would very much like to write back to my sister today, accepting on both our behalf. What do you say?”

Crowley tried hard to process the information. Organised religion was really not his cup of tea,2 but going with Aziraphale as his _date_... That he could definitely get on board with.

“Yeah, I'd – I'd love to. When are we going?”

Aziraphale laughed at this point. “Oh no, we're not actually _going!_ ” Then, seeing the hurt dawning on Crowley's face, he hurried on. “The boyfriend bit is real. But what I _intend_ to do (with your permission of course) is to write back an _effusive_ and _heartfelt_ acceptance. Uriel will be devastated.”

“Angel, I'm _really_ confused here.”

“It's quite simple. Oh, _do_ eat your teacake, dear. You're positively _mashing_ it. Anyway, as I was saying. Darling Uriel has written to kindly invite me 'back into the fold.' And even _more_ kindly reminds me of the existence of her charming friend Emily, who is still waiting for the right person after all these years. She alleges that Emily has been asking after me at church, which I very much doubt.”

Crowley, who was barely following this spiel, unwrapped and took a bite out of his Tunnock's teacake. It was almost as revolting as the wagon wheels had been.

“ _Anyway_ , I shall write back effusively proclaiming how _delighted_ I am at the opportunity to introduce my _beloved_ boyfriend – that's you – into the bosom of my family. Now, how old are you?”

Somewhat taken aback, Crowley took a moment to answer. “I'm thirty-six.”

“Perfect! I'm forty-five, so I'll put that there's a _teensy_ bit of an age gap, and they can fill in the blanks for themselves. Tell me something horrible about your past.”

“Uh... I was raised a Catholic?”

“Oh, that's fantastic. How awful for you! Anyway, that will get right up Uriel's nose. She never was one for religious tolerance.3

“Well! I think that's enough material to make a start with. And I have the _perfect_ rainbow notepaper to write it on. _Please_ finish your teacake, Crowley. For me?”

Four days later, Aziraphale excitedly asked Crowley to shut up the shop.

“I've had an email from Uriel!”4

The email was appalling. Aziraphale read out the best bits in a nasal voice that he assured Crowley was highly accurate.

As it turned out, nothing could have prepared Crowley for the sheer mortification of Aziraphale's gleefully reading the selected highlights from his sister's email.

“And here's the bit where she goes on about 'sodomising your toyboy in that den of sin.' Really, we haven't even got to that bit yet... _Crumbs_ , Crowley! For Heaven's sake, I gave you a plate for a reason.

“Then she says that we're both damned for all eternity.” Aziraphale glanced appreciatively at Crowley's figure. “Well, I must say damnation suits you. But according to her we'll be subjected to some _very_ specific torments. Uriel always did have quite the imagination... Actually, some of those torments don't sound half bad.”

There were several paragraphs on the evils of Catholicism, and some very unkind words about the Pope. Aziraphale paused briefly to devour the last of the teacakes,5 before summing up.

“She says to repent now, for it is not too late – that doesn't really square with us being damned for all eternity now, does it? - and to keep our degenerate influences away from her children.

“Now, I'm just going to pop to the building society to set up a savings account for little Faith – she'll appreciate the money when she runs away from home. Oh, don't look at me like that, Crowley, it's an LGBT tradition. _All_ the queer kids in our family do it. And I turned out alright, didn't I?”

Later, Aziraphale took great delight in uploading the offending email to the 'Letters of Recommendation' page of his ancient website. When Crowley looked it over, it seemed to largely consist of disgruntled customers, a long-running feud with the binmen, and a sporadic yet lengthy correspondence with Uriel.

Crowley showed him how to add an animated GIF of flickering hellfire to the bottom of the page, and Aziraphale was so delighted he rushed out to buy him another potted plant.

1Path of least resistance

2Or diminutive cup of ristretto

3Or any other kind of tolerance

4“Never give out your phone number to family members!”

5Correct way of eating according to Aziraphale: bite the top off, enthusiastically lick the white marshmallowy centre while making full eye contact with your boyfriend, and then eat the biscuit base

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: *seductively eats Tunnock's teacake*


	8. Garibaldi's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST ALERT. Today's chapter is an ANGST chapter!
> 
> Content warning: contains more details of past domestic violence.

Crowley was getting worried. Superficially, things were perfect. He saw Aziraphale at the shop five days a week, and they got drunk together on Friday nights. Aziraphale never got angry with him, never shouted.1 Everything was slow, peaceful and unhurried.

And yet. Crowley wasn't an idiot. He'd seen the hungry glances Aziraphale sometimes gave him. And they were reciprocated – sort of. Crowley had been having dreams. Crazy, erotic, biscuit-munching angel dreams. Sometimes he'd wake up to a spreading damp patch in the bed. Sometimes to the first wheezings of a panic attack.

He definitely wasn't ready for this. But the thought of losing Aziraphale was unimaginable. So, halfway into an underwhelming Pinot Grigio on another Friday night, Crowley clenched his jaw and attempted to seize opportunity by the balls.

What he had not been expecting was for Aziraphale to give a little cough, and gently move his hand away from the crotch area, and onto the safety of an ample thigh.

“My dear, you look like you're about to be sick. What's going on?”

_Shit_. Well that didn't go as planned.

“Uh... Sorry. I just -” Crowley paused to panic a little, before just blurting it out “- I'm scared if I don't put out then you'll leave me.”

“Oh _Crowley_... What about all this makes you think I'd want rid of you?” Aziraphale gestured to the coffee table, where there were now five – no wait, _six_ – potted plants, and several picture-heavy gardening books.

Aziraphale had covered Crowley's hand with his own, and was gently soothing the skin with his thumb.

“How about you sleep on the sofa, and we can talk about this tomorrow when we're sober?”

“Um. Sure, Angel.” That sounded more than a little terrifying, but it was also a problem for Sober Crowley. Slightly Drunk Crowley made to grab awkwardly at his wine glass with his left hand.

And, utter fucking idiot that he was, he knocked the glass over. It didn't shatter, but the rest of the wine ended up on the rug.

Crowley yanked his hand back from Aziraphale's, and put both arms up to protect his face.

“I'm sssorry. I didn't mean to – I'm _sorry_...”

“Crowley, it's _alright_. It's only wine, and a rug that's very much seen better days. I can get it cleaned in the morning. Now, I think we should both tuck into a nice pack of -” Aziraphale cast around on the coffee table for the nearest packet of biscuits “- _Garibaldi's_. They're very good for you. They've got fruit in!”

Aziraphale chattered on for a minute about 'squashed fly biscuits' (as his rather dotty aunt had labelled them), and the various health benefits of small quantities of raisins.2 It was soothing to hear him ramble on, without any expectation that Crowley would actually follow what he was saying.

Biscuits were dispersed, and munched with varying degrees of enjoyment. At least they weren't as sickly as the godawful marshmallowy affairs, and they also had the benefit of being on the small side. Although, as Aziraphale quickly explained,3 this meant you could eat twice as many.

Watching Crowley grimace his way through several biscuits seemed to satisfy the angel that he was doing a little better. Aziraphale polished off three or four more biscuits, before turning to his own glass of wine.

He took a dainty sip, and pulled a face. “No, my dear, you were _quite right_. Distinctly sub-par.” And at that, Aziraphale tipped the remaining wine onto the rug.

“Now, shall we put you to bed?”

Aziraphale insisted on sending an overly polite text to Anathema, to let her know where Crowley was (as if she couldn't guess), and even more insistently piled bedding onto the sofa: a duvet, three pillows, and a quilt 'in case you get cold.' Sleep came surprisingly easily.

Mid-morning, Crowley woke to the sounds of a one-sided argument coming from the kitchenette.

“Really, it's your own fault! I think we _all_ remember last Christmas, and the Sherry Incident. That wine was _not_ intended for you.

“Yes, I _know_ it wasn't very good. Why do you think I tipped it onto the rug? Anyway, I have no sympathy at all. You can get over your hangovers like the rest of us, by sheer suffering.

“ _Language!_ ”

And with that, Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen.

“Really, some people will try and blame you for _anything_. Now, I have English breakfast, and I've found us another pack of Garibaldi's.”4

The tea was good, the biscuits less so. But as usual, Crowley ate a good number of them under the weight of Aziraphale's expectations.

They passed the time pleasantly enough, but inevitably things came round to the promised talk.

“Crowley, I'll be blunt. Do you at some point want a physical relationship with me?”

Fuck. This was going to be hard. “...Yeah, Angel. I do.”

“Oh _good_. Now, I know this will be hard for you, but I have to ask. What did he do to you?”

“Huh?”

“Your ex. I would never want to hurt you, but that will be easier if I know. What did he do?”

Right. No escaping it, then.

“Luke. He's called Luke. At – at first he just shouted. Then one day he got mad, and he hit me.” Crowley's voice had drifted into a bland monotone. “He used to punch me in the face. Then I wasn't allowed to go out until the bruises healed. He didn't want anyone to know. He said he loved me, but I just kept winding him up. That it was my fault.”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale stroked his hand. It looked like it probably felt nice.

“Thank you for telling me, my dear. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Yeah. He used to choke me, during sex. He told me I liked it. I thought he might kill me someday.

“That's it really. One day he checked my phone, and saw I'd been texting Anathema about him. He went mental, beat the shit out of me. Smashed my phone. After a week Anathema got worried, her and Newt drove up and got me while he was at work. Haven't seen him since.”

“Crowley, if I have my way he'll never hurt you again. May I hug you?”

“Sure, Angel.”

Aziraphale held him close, and Crowley let himself relax a little into the soft cloud of biscuit-scented angel.

Some time later, Aziraphale gave him a small squeeze, and drew away.

“Now, what do you reckon the appropriate aspirin dosage is for mice?”

1Customers don't count

2Negligible

3And demonstrated, of course

4“Of course you can have them for breakfast. They've got fruit in!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: *squeak*


	9. Viennese Whirls

The dreams were _really_ getting out of hand. The latest one involved Aziraphale eating a very crumbly biscuit, and getting crumbs all over his lap. And Crowley hoovering them up with his mouth.

He might not have minded, but shame-cleaning the sofa bed in the morning before Anathema noticed was a real drag. It was _definitely_ time to think about getting his own place.

So, having febrezed the fuck out of Anathema's poor sofa, Crowley did a bit of quick searching online before heading into work.

The results were... not promising. Every flat he could afford looked like a fucking shithole. Still. Maybe Aziraphale would have some ideas?

As Crowley surely ought to have predicted, when he came into the shop1 and headed through to the back room, it was to find Aziraphale cheerfully ensconced with a packet of Viennese fucking whirls. He was doomed.

So Crowley explained his housing predicament, interrupted by multiple exclamations of “Oh dear,” and “My, these crumbs really do get everywhere.” Aziraphale was attentive and sympathetic, but he was also eating some of the crumbliest biscuits known to mankind. Several times, Crowley had to remind himself that the dreams were not, in fact, Aziraphale's fault. _Probably_ not his fault. Ok, _plausibly_ , Aziraphale didn't know the effect his eating could have on Crowley. He might not suspect a thing.2

_Anyway_. Crowley survived the conversation. His measure of success being that he did not spontaneously ejaculate into his pants.

They agreed on viewing several of the least awful flats together. Crowley fired off a few emails, and studiously ignored the mounting levels of crumbs in his own lap. Brushing them away would only lead to disaster.

Aziraphale did actually open the shop at some point,3 and then spent the afternoon scurrying around hiding all the Shakespeare. Something about collectors being ever vigilant. He looked unbearably like an adorable squirrel rushing around hoarding nuts. Crowley would _not_ start dreaming about squirrels.

While taking a break from daydreaming about squirrels, Crowley got into the angel's good books with an excellent display of his customer service skills,4 and was rewarded with a smacking kiss on the lips. Aggressively failing to sell books had its good points.

Crowley managed to arrange three viewings for the coming Saturday. They could probably have squeezed another one in, but the photos of the places had just been too damn depressing.

Saturday rolled around soon enough. Crowley wasn't fully dreading it, but he didn't exactly feel enthused. Unlike Anathema. Anathema was _delighted_. She consulted with several oracles, and concluded that they all thought it was time for him to be striking out on his own. And maybe buying Anathema a new sofa.

Once he'd escaped Anathema's entirely uninfectious enthusiasm, Crowley set off to be force fed biscuits at the bus stop. At least it was harder to get crumbs all down yourself while standing up.

The first flat was _dire_. The first couple of rooms were just depressingly scruffy. Stains on the carpet, peeling wallpaper. Then they went to look at the bathroom.

The entire back wall of the bathroom was black with mould. Crowley instinctively held his breath as soon as he saw it, and tried not to think about whether the spores could enter his brain. Together with Aziraphale, he backed out of the room.

The next one was just falling apart, rather than disgusting. Ok, so the kitchen was going for a fun 'half-dismantled' look, but the air at least wasn't actively trying to kill him. Which was more than he could say for the broken glass in the living room.

Crowley lost Aziraphale for a minute while he was checking the bathroom for death mould. Everything clear apart from an avocado green bath suite and a leaky tap.

He caught up to his angel in the kitchen again, where it seemed Aziraphale had made some friends.

“Angel, _please_ don't feed the mice. You'll get us kicked out of the house viewing.”

“Oh but Crowley, they're really _delightful_ little fellows. And they say the food in this building leaves a _little_ to be desired. Doesn't that boy there have the _sweetest_ little face?”

“I know, but...” Crowley looked round at the devastated kitchen. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the place.

“Well, yes. Goodbye, my dears.”

After the letting agent had locked up, Aziraphale feigned a coughing fit, and slipped two Viennese whirls through the letterbox. Crowley just rolled his eyes.

Externally, the third flat did not look great. _Very_ run down council estate. Crowley had seen his share of estates, and this was one of the worse ones. Impressively devoid of hope.

Crowley knew better than to judge a book by its cover,5 but inside the place was just as grim. It was a flatshare, and the two men slouching in the living room looked positively pestilent. They paused their video game to stare as Crowley and Aziraphale entered the room.

“Hello, my dears. I'm Aziraphale, and this is Crowley. I _do_ hope we're not intruding.”

“Hastur,” one of them grunted.

“Ligur.”

“ _Charming_.”

There was an unpleasant croak from a corner of the room, where there was a small vivarium with an oversized lumpy toad inside it. It probably didn't explain the smell though.

They left pretty quickly after that. On their way out, both of them spotted the three foot high homophobic graffiti on the side of the opposite building.

“Crowley, you can't live here.”

“...I know.”

Aziraphale invited him back to the shop after that, almost definitely to cheer him up. What a fucking waste of a day.

Still, there was wine, and there was Aziraphale. The always erratic angel kept wandering into the kitchen for nibbles, and Crowley would catch snatches of conversation with Boudicea, who was apparently catching up on the gossip about a rival mouse tribe. Crowley just sighed fondly – at some point he'd gone beyond questioning Aziraphale's bizarre relationship with the mice of the shop. There was also the fear that if he examined the thought too closely, he'd end up talking to the mice himself.

Sat on the sofa again, when Aziraphale leaned over to brush biscuit crumbs from around Crowley's mouth, Crowley knew he was utterly doomed.

But maybe that wasn't so bad.

1Promptly around eleven-ish, as per usual

2If you too experience severe and enduring delusions, please consider speaking to a healthcare professional. Alternatively, have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit

3A very reasonable half past twelve

4No is a complete sentence

5Aziraphale had in fact been known to hide his more precious books inside the covers of other, lesser novels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: oh no, I have crumbs...


	10. Choco Liebniz

“Angel...?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

Fuck it, here we go. “Do you – do you think I'm doing better? From when you first met me.”

Aziraphale paused to consider. “Yes, I think so. You're less jumpy. And you talk more. _Not_ that I agree with what you said last week about my tartan. The very _idea!_ Why do you ask, my dear?”

Right. “It's just... I think I'm ready. Anathema won't tell me what she thinks, but... I want to sleep with you. If – if you want that.”

Crowley glued his mouth shut, waiting for judgement. After a minute, Aziraphale spoke.

“Are you sure? Crowley, I... I'd never want to hurt you.”

“I know. But, the thing is – Luke never let me choose things. I didn't get to pick what I wanted. But now... I know what I want, Angel.”

There was another pause, then Aziraphale spoke.

“Oh, I'm so _sorry_. I didn't mean to undermine you, my dear. You're quite right. Now, I'm going to fetch a pot of tea and some biscuits, and we're going to have a talk about _consent._ ”

The consent discussion was lengthy,1 but Crowley could kind of see the point. They laid down some ground rules of what they wouldn't do, which positions might be re-traumatising. At one point Crowley's brain decided it was all a bit too much, and drifted off somewhere less overwhelming.

Aziraphale brought him back though, brushing a dark chocolate choco leibniz against his lips.

“Bite.”

Crowley bit down on the biscuit, and shouldn't have found the thing so erotic. He didn't even _like_ chocolate... Least it had brought him back from wherever he'd been headed.

And the talk carried on.

A good half hour later, and frankly they'd thrashed out everything Crowley could think of.2

“Angel, I think we're good. Can I _please_ just suck you off?”

“Actually, my love, I was thinking I could do that for you.”

_My love._

So Crowley found himself still sat on the sofa, with his jeans pulled down and an angel at his feet.

Aziraphale gave him a slow lick, from root to tip.

“I have wanted this -” he sucked at Crowley's head, and pulled off with a pop “- for _so_ long.”

Then Aziraphale set to work in earnest. Crowley felt all his thoughts melt away as his senses overwhelmed him. _Fuck_...

As it happened, Crowley didn't need any of the approximately 10,000 verbal and non-verbal signals for 'please stop.'3 And fortunately, Aziraphale was able to correctly interpret the involuntary little gasps Crowley was making as emphatic signs of pleasure.

Crowley had been right to fixate on his angel's lips. They were _fantastic_. His head fell back in pleasure, as Aziraphale kept taking him deep, and then drawing back and making tiny delicious biscuit-eating noises.

It was the noises as much as anything that were driving him crazy. Fucking _months_ spent lusting after this ridiculous angel and his bizarre obsession with biscuits. And now, hearing those _same noises_... It was deliciously too much.

Crowley found himself clutching at Aziraphale's shoulder, shaking. He didn't want it to stop, even if it meant he fell apart completely. As if he understood, his angel sped up.

_Fuck_... It felt like the whole world was vibrating with him. He was shaking into pieces, and Aziraphale was still moving, taking him apart further and further.

“ _Angel_ -” Crowley couldn't help his hips spasming, as his cock pulsed and he came in Aziraphale's mouth.

Suddenly the world clicked back into place, and Crowley found himself breathing raggedly. But before he could descend into panic, Aziraphale was clambering upwards onto the sofa to embrace him.

“Shh, you're ok. You're ok. I'm _so_ proud of you...”

Crowley shivered, but let himself be held. He might _actually_ have managed a relatively normal human interaction.

“Now, how about a biscuit? They're dark chocolate!”4

Feeling suddenly liberated, Crowley cackled with laughter.

“You fucking planned this, didn't you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The biscuits. They're a _seduction_. Admit it.”

“I will have you know that the choco liebniz were _not_ my idea!”

“Mm hmm... And whose idea _was_ it then? Boudicea's?”

“Well, she – no! I'll have you know it was Tracey's. Boudicea merely confirmed the thought. She happens to like dark chocolate, even though I _told_ her you're not supposed to give chocolate to mice. It's bad for them, apparently. Dogs, too. Anyway, I don't see what _you're_ complaining about.”

“I'm not complaining, Angel. I - thank you.”

“Oh! Well. Have another biscuit.” And he held a biscuit up for Crowley to eat.

As he crunched the biscuit held in Aziraphale's hand, Crowley vowed _never_ to develop a fetish for being hand-fed biscuits. He didn't even _like_ biscuits. Which was certainly a thing he'd be telling Aziraphale any day now...

Right now though, he just felt sleepy.

“Can I stay here tonight, Angel?”

“Of course, my dear. You don't even have to ask. Would you like to come upstairs with me?”

One flight of stairs and an explanatory text to Anathema later,5 Crowley finally encountered the angel's bed.

“Is _everything_ you own tartan?”

“Obviously not! That lampshade, for instance, isn't tartan. _And_ the carpet. Now _do_ be quiet and get ready for bed.”

Crowley obeyed, and silently thanked himself for his habit of keeping three day's worth of meds in his wallet. Pills taken and toothbrush borrowed, he got into bed. And shivered.

“Angel, don't you have central heating?”

“I really haven't the slightest idea. The boiler and I are not on speaking terms, not since last November and the Incident. Here, come closer and I'll warm you up.”

Well, _that_ was an offer that was hard to refuse... Crowley found himself curled up in his angel's arms, warm and content.

Sleep came easily that night. He still dreamt of biscuits.

1Two pots of tea and three quarters of a packet of biscuits

2Aziraphale had enough points to carry on for at _least_ another hour and forty-five minutes

3“If all else fails, I'll take you thumping me repeatedly on the back as a 'hard no'”

4It's _classy_

5There was _definitely_ no Anathema-Aziraphale conspiracy taking place about the ongoing care of Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: care for a nibble? It's _classy!_


	11. Fig Rolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST notes: contains some violent abuse (not too graphic)

It turned out blow jobs weren't enough. Crowley wanted _more_. But Aziraphale was insistent that they needed to keep talking things through before they took the next step.

“Angel, I will _literally die_ if you don't fuck me.”

“Really, my dear. That's not a very good use of the word 'literally' – I think what you _meant_ to say was -”

“Aziraphale, you fucking bastard, will you _please_ just fuck me.”

Aziraphale1 just crunched another biscuit.

Fortunately, a compromise was reached. Aziraphale gracefully agreed to have sex with him, if they planned the whole scene out beforehand. In greater detail than if they'd been invading Poland.

Still. If it brought Crowley one step closer to having Aziraphale's cock inside of him. The biscuit dreams were becoming increasingly unmanageable, and Anathema was _not_ impressed.

So, after much red-faced negotiation, Crowley found himself again in Aziraphale's bed. The angel was reclining decadently as he watched Crowley work himself open.

“Darling, you're simply _gorgeous_.”

_Darling_. Crowley added that one to the hoard. And sighed happily as Aziraphale gently pulled him down for a kiss. This was nice. He could cope with this.

That had been something they'd both agreed on. Crowley would stay on top. The thought of anyone – even Aziraphale – looming over him, bracketing him in, made him want to puke. That was for Future Crowley to work on though. _Current_ Crowley was very much enjoying himself.

Aziraphale nibbled at his lip. _Fuck_ , that felt good.

“I – I'm ready. Can we...” Crowley might still have been a bit nervous.

“Of course we can.” Aziraphale deftly sheathed himself in latex, slicked himself up, and then Crowley was _finally_ able to sink himself slowly onto Aziraphale's cock.

And felt instantly overwhelmed. His mind felt like it was in twelve places at once, some of them perfectly nice places to be, and others _really_ not.

Aziraphale was reaching up to stroke his cheek though. “Crowley, if I have to force feed you biscuits during sex, I _absolutely will_.”2

Then Crowley burst out laughing, and everything was _fine_. He leaned down to kiss Aziraphale, still laughing, and wiggled just a little bit with his hips. And suddenly everything was _more_ than fine.

He really shouldn't have been surprised that sex with Aziraphale was so sweet. By rights the man ought to be on insulin. But it was just so _different_. Sweet kisses and little gasps of pleasure. For all that Crowley had been insanely sex obsessed recently, he'd kind of forgotten it was meant to feel _good_.

Hands on either side of the angel's head, constantly trading kisses, Crowley rocked his hips and let Aziraphale slide into him again and again.

“Can I touch you, my love?”

“Yeah, Angel...”

Aziraphale's hand on his cock was _electric_. Suddenly he couldn't keep to the gentle pace he'd been setting. Crowley found himself slamming down frantically, needing to take Aziraphale deeper. They were both panting now with the exertion.

“ _Angel_...”

“Oh _fuck_...

“I'm sorry, Crowley, I seem to have – well...”

“Angel, are you _apologising_ for coming during sex?”

“Well, it wasn't part of the _Plan!_ ”

“ _I told you we didn't need a plan!_ ”

“And _I_ say that we _did_. Now would you _please_ and _kindly_ allow me the pleasure of bringing you to climax?”

“I hate you so much sometimes.”

Crowley was feeling pretty good about life. They'd had sex, and the world hadn't ended. Then they'd repeated the experiment, just in case. Several times.3 Results seemed consistent.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale was keen on maintaining the pretence of actually running a functioning bookshop. So, on a cursed Thursday morning, Crowley found himself minding the shop alone.

The bell jangled.

“Oh thank God, I've _found_ you.”

Crowley froze. He couldn't make himself look up to confirm what he already knew. It was Luke.

Then there were footsteps coming towards him, and his eyes snapped up. Yep. Him.

“I've missed you so _much_ , Crowley. You'll come home with me, won't you?”

Crowley backed against the shelves and clamped his eyes shut. “ _No_...”

“You don't mean that, do you?” Anyone else wouldn't have noticed the slight inflection on the 'do.'

“Please go away,” Crowley whispered. He could already feel Luke's hands around his neck, squeezing.

Luke kept talking, but Crowley couldn't hear it. He was hyper-focussing on those footsteps. First they came up to the cash register, and then they went _around_.

“You _want_ to come back to me, don't you?”

Crowley just shook his head.

“You little _bitch_. You've found someone else, haven't you?” And then those imagined hands became real, and Crowley was being throttled again.

He couldn't fight back. He never had. He was going to fucking die, in this place that he loved.

More footsteps. Then words, distant.

“Do you know, I think your eyeball would pop _right_ out, if I exerted just a _little_ more pressure? Now, how about you let Crowley go, and maybe I won't blind you. _Jolly_ good...”

And just like that, the crushing hands were gone. Crowley kept his eyes squeezed shut anyway.

Aziraphale was still talking in a conversational tone.

“I know who you are, and I know what you did. I know where you _live_. I _also_ know where you work. And wouldn't they be _interested_ to know what you've been up to?

“ _Anyway_. You will leave now, and never back. You will never see, or speak to Crowley again. The police will be informed, and – if you're _very_ lucky – that's as far as it will go. Now _do_ run along now, before you get hurt. Toodle pip!”

Crowley listened to the footsteps, and the door's bell. He was gone.

As if his strings had been cut, Crowley collapsed to the floor. He was dimly aware of Aziraphale rushing to his side, and talking him through being ushered into the back room. It was probably a more comfortable a place for a total mental breakdown.

For a while, Aziraphale just hugged him gently without speaking. Crowley felt numb. He couldn't even tell if he was crying. But in a haze, Crowley thought about all Aziraphale had done for him. He kind of felt like he should make some kind of effort back.

“Angel... can I have a biscuit?”

“Of course. I have _just_ the thing.”

Suddenly Crowley was submerged in an avalanche of fig rolls.4

Through the crumbs, Crowley grumbled “I only said _one_ biscuit...”

1The fucking bastard

2He absolutely would

3For Science

4“They're very _nourishing_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: I'll let you go on top...?


	12. Shortbread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mention of past domestic abuse. Nothing graphic.

Honestly, Crowley was not feeling entirely moored to this plane of reality. The biscuits helped, a little. He kept drifting in and out, more often than not coming to and finding Aziraphale wafting shortbread under his nose. Crowley, being fully trained now to consume all biscuits when offered, just ate them.

Once he found himself still sat on the sofa, but swathed under three tartan blankets1 and clutching a hot water bottle. It was tartan. He flailed it around a bit, to signal that he was back in the room, and would like to know about this sudden influx of tartan.

“You were shaking.” Aziraphale was perched on the nearby armchair, fretting.

“Come and warm me up then,” Crowley mumbled, apparently coherently. Aziraphale came over and sat by him, and Crowley breathed in the comforting beige angel smell. He arranged Aziraphale's arms around him, and slumped into the hug. _Much_ better.

When he woke up – he might actually have been asleep that time – Anathema was now sat in the armchair, eyeing him up critically.

“What're you doing here?”

“I'm sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“He – he's not coming back...”

Anathema smiled wholesomely. “ _Great!_ Then he won't get his teeth kicked in.”

With Crowley broadly conscious, Aziraphale hastened to make tea and offer round more biscuits. The biscuits were shaped like little Scottie dogs, and came from a red tin with a picture of a dog in a tartan bow tie. For a split second, Crowley felt absurdly happy.

“I made lapsang souchong for you. Try it!”

Crowley tried the tea. It tasted of smoke, and was actually kind of delicious. Aziraphale beamed when he told him so.

So he kept sipping at the tea, and nibbling on biscuits. The sense that he was being _monitored_ kind of got to him though. It was as bad as when Anathema first brought him back to London.

“Look, I'm _ok_...”

Anathema did not look convinced, but it was Aziraphale who spoke.

“Crowley, I'd like to ask your permission for something.”

“Yeah, angel. What is it?”

“Well, you remember my friend Deirdre? The one in the police?”

Crowley nodded in response.

“I'd like her to come round tomorrow, to speak to you. She can talk you through your options, restraining orders and things. Do you think you can do that?”

All of a sudden Crowley felt his throat constricting. _Fuck_. He tried to swallow, painfully. _Just breath_ e... Right.

“Yeah,” he croaked. “I'll do it.”

Crowley did not pass a peaceful night. He kept waking up in a panic, adrenaline surging. Aziraphale helped though, so fucking much. The smell of him, the reassuring feel of his soft body. Crowley just had to hope the angel didn't overly mind having his stomach lightly kneaded...2 Aziraphale was just so inherently _soothing_.

Morning came eventually. More tea, more biscuits. Anathema griped about the state of the upholstery, and Aziraphale cheerfully bickered back.

Deirdre arrived. She was nice. Crowley vaguely remembered her in relation to her son, whose personality always seemed to fill up the whole shop. Crowley always felt more relaxed around kids.

When they got down to business, Crowley felt that part of his mind that dealt with inconvenient emotions just shut off again. Numbly, he explained what had happened yesterday. The bits he'd seen or heard at least. Aziraphale then filled in the rest.3 Crowley thought he half-heard squeaking, from the direction of the till.

Next, Deirdre wanted more background information. About when they'd lived together. Crowley looked to Anathema for reassurance. He'd asked her to sit next to him on the sofa in preparation for this.

She squeezed his hand, and Crowley started talking. Kept his eyes fixed on his lap, and spewed out all the vile shit that had happened. Even said the big one, the thing he'd never said out loud before. “ _He raped me._ ” More shit. How he'd fought back, just the once, and never again. Never said no. Just took it.

Anathema held his hand throughout. She had photos on her phone, the ones she'd insisted they take as proof once he was safe. Crowley looked fucking skeletal in them, black and blue. He looked like a corpse. It was easier not to watch anyone else's reaction to them.

The harder bit was the talking through options. Crowley had to actually _think_ , rather than just open his mouth and let words fall out. He didn't want to go to court. Restraining order sounded good though. Luke never liked looking bad in front of other people. Didn't want things on _record_.

Anathema chipped in a lot too. She'd been doing research. Domestic abuse charities, personal safety phone apps... Crowley had been glued to his new phone ever since he'd got it, so one of those could work well. He squeezed her hand back, and then frowned a little when he heard the squeaking from the till again.

After several gruelling hours, they had an action plan. Deirdre promised to be in touch soon about the paperwork and any updates, and was sent off with a series of book recommendations to pass on to Adam.

Crowley drew Anathema into a squeezing hug. “Thank you...”

Then after a moment, he added “Angel, am I going _insane_ , or is there a mouse trapped in your till?” The tillward squeaking had grown increasingly frantic.

“Oh dear... I put those pink wafers in. You know, your _favourites_.4 And – well. Let me just go see.”

Aziraphale crossed the room, and opened the till, extracting a small but rotund mouse, lightly dusted in pink powder.

“ _Really_ ,” he admonished the mouse. “Those were a _special treat_ for Crowley! There will be absolutely _no_ Sunday dinner for you, young man!” He placed the offending mouse onto the kitchen floor, where it scooted off under the cupboards, leaving a trail of incriminating pink powder.

Crowley silently thanked the mouse for his biscuity reprieve, and vowed to bring it some Yorkshire pudding.

1In three _separate_ and clashing tartans

2Fortunately Aziraphale quite liked being squishy

3“I really only gouged him a _little_ bit... And it _was_ the more _gentlemanly_ of the options!”

4Crowley still loathed them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: _leaves incriminating trail of pink powder_


	13. Hobnobs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're onto the home stretch! I reckon three-ish more chapters...

The next week was tough. He kept losing time here and there, suddenly jolting back into reality to find Aziraphale or Anathema halfway through talking to him. The stubborn witch had spent three more nights on the sofa, before a final trawl of Luke's social media had convinced her he'd gone home for good.

The nightmares were not great either. Aziraphale would wake him sometimes, and chatter soothingly until the fear passed. Crowley was so tired, all of the time, but he made excuse after excuse not to head to bed. Aziraphale started reading out loud to him at night though, and that helped a bit.

Worst was the time he came to in the kitchen, in front of the knife rack. He was just stood there crying, and couldn't remember why.

Aziraphale never asked for explanations though. Never judged him even when Crowley _knew_ he was acting crazy. He asked permission to touch Crowley every fucking time.

Crowley was beginning to suspect the angel had a hidden stash of softer-than-soft beige cashmere jumpers. He considered hunting it down, but worried he'd just curl up like a cat and refuse to leave his angel-scented woollen nest ever again.

It was while he was negotiating the tricky tightrope of inhaling Aziraphale's lovely jumper smell as much as possible, while _not_ dripping snot all over him after another random crying bout, that he had a sudden thought. _Fuck, I love him_. Then, a moment later, _Shit_...

It shouldn't have come as such a surprise. But Crowley was just so used to his life revolving around Luke. Loving him, then fearing him, frantically hiding any kind of negative emotion from him. It was downright _weird_ to suddenly realise his life had found a new centre.

So Crowley tucked the knowledge up inside of him, kept it safe until he knew what to do with it.

One day he announced to Aziraphale “I want to go out.”

They'd been out together a few times, to the bakery or nearby shops. Short trips.

“By yourself, do you mean?”

“Yeah. I want to do some thinking.”

Aziraphale was surprisingly ok with it. They agreed on a plan.1 Crowley told him where he was going – Kew gardens – and the route he would take. He'd text when he got there, and when he was leaving to come back. Neither of them hugely expected Luke to show up stalking him, but frankly Crowley was petrified of leaving the safety of the shop enough that any kind of plan had to be a help.

Aziraphale pressed a cling filmed package of hobnobs into his hand just before he left.

He took a taxi. It seemed marginally less risky than the bus. Crowley had his jaw clenched throughout the journey, and resisted all the driver's attempts at small talk. Rapidly texted Aziraphale once he got there.

Once he got inside though. It was like all the static and white noise going on in his head just vanished. Crowley wandered round in a happy daze, searching for the perfect spot.

He found it after about an hour's meandering. A secluded corner, green and verdant, but no showy flowers to draw in the other visitors. Crowley sat on the ground and dug one hand into the bed of earth. And talked.

He told the plants he was in love with an angel. That it scared him. That he'd once told Luke _I'd do anything for you_ , and how that ended. He couldn't repeat that mistake again. He unwrapped the hobnobs, and shared them with a few feral pigeons.

Crowley's thoughts jumped around at random. He talked about Anathema, how she'd just turned up to save him, as if it was nothing. She just glared if he ever brought it up.

It felt cathartic, being out in the open about it. Crowley lay back on the grass and shut his eyes. Buried his hand deeper in the earth. Thought about what he was thankful for.

Then he sat up, wiped his hand on the grass followed by his jeans, texted Aziraphale, and got a taxi back to the shop.

“Angel...?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I want to talk to you about something. It's – it's important.”

“Of course. I'll put the kettle on.”

They settled down, with tea and hobnobs. Crowley accidentally crushed one biscuit into crumbs, then surreptitiously disposed of the crumbs on the floor in his anxiety.

Fuck it.

“Angel, I – I'm in love with you. But... if you ever really hurt me, I'm leaving. I have to look after myself.”

Aziraphale promptly burst into tears.

“Angel, _no_... Please don't be upset.”

Aziraphale snuffled, and rallied enough to speak.

“Oh Crowley... I'm just so _proud_ of you. You're _quite_ right to put yourself first. You've come _so far_ these past few months, and I couldn't be prouder. Here, have another hobnob. Oh! And I love you too, my dear.”

Crowley took the proffered biscuit, and promptly crushed it again without thinking. This time Aziraphale noticed when he sprinkled the remains on the floor.

“Sorry, Angel. Bit nervous. I'll sweep it up later.”

“Oh, leave it. The mice will take care of it.”

“Angel, do you really lo- weren't you trying to wean them off of refined sugar?”

“Of course I do, my love. And – well – it's a bit _embarrassing_. Boudicea rather gave me an _ultimatum_...”

“Go on...”

“ _Well_ , I really put my foot down after the pink wafer incident. I know how _upset_ you were about that.2 Anyway, I told the mice they were on a _strict_ diet.”

“And?”

“They resorted to _terrorist_ tactics. I came downstairs one morning, and they'd _nibbled at all of my bookmarks!!!_ Even that one in the Shakespeare! Well, obviously I backed down at once. There's just no negotiating with _barbarians_.”

“So the mice can have biscuits.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And you love me.”

“Of course!”

“Huh...” Crowley absently grabbed the biscuit packet, and started crushing up more hobnobs. To forestall any protest from his angel, he also leaned forward and kissed Aziraphale full on the mouth.

The mangled packet of biscuits dropped from Crowley's hands to the floor, but neither of them cared.

1Aziraphale _loved_ plans

2Crowley studiously gazed at the interestingly patterned carpet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: barbarians, yay or nay?


	14. Chocolate Digestives

Something was wrong. Aziraphale was just sat there, _nibbling_ at his chocolate digestives. Aziraphale didn't nibble at biscuits. He _devoured_ them. Anything less than 100% enthusiasm in biscuit consumption was, in his own words, 'an insult to the biscuit.'

“Alright, I'll bite. What's wrong, Angel?”

“Hmm? Oh, it's nothing. Don't worry, my dear.”

“Bollocks it's nothing. What is it, have you been rowing with the binmen again?”1

“No... It's – it's not _important_. Just that restoration work hasn't been going as smoothly as I'd hoped. You don't need to worry about it though, it's _fine_.” Aziraphale took another tiny bite of his biscuit distractedly.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “You're not fooling anyone, you know. C'mere.” He held his arms out, and Aziraphale reluctantly shuffled into place between them.

“You're allowed to need looking after too, sometimes.”

“But...”

“No buts. I _like_ looking after you. I like bringing you tea, and cheering you up. It feels good, taking care of you.”

He could _feel_ Aziraphale frowning, even if he couldn't see his face. So he continued. “Look, I know I've been struggling lately. And you've taken such good care of me. But right _now_ , I'm ok. And I want to look after you too. So eat your damn biscuit, and come upstairs with me.”

Aziraphale grumbled, but found his feet and allowed himself to be pulled upstairs.

In the bedroom, Crowley gently stroked his angel's cheek. “Let's get rid of some of these layers, ok?”

Consent gained, Crowley set to work on buttons and zips. Soon he had his angel gloriously naked.

“Lie back on the bed for me.

“Now close your eyes.”

Crowley was managing to sound more confident than he felt. But he desperately wanted to do this, to take care of someone who'd taken care of him.

Aziraphale kept a bar of dark chocolate in his bedside drawer, for midnight snacks. So Crowley located it, and snapped off a chunk. He put it in his mouth, and let it melt.

Ignoring the still too sweet chocolatey taste, Crowley began running his hands over his angel's gorgeous body. Absolutely _stunning_.

When the chocolate had fully melted, he leaned over for a kiss. Aziraphale moaned into his mouth when the chocolate taste hit him. Crowley just smirked at his success.

Next, he peppered more kisses down the angel's body, pausing to nibble at those tempting nipples. Aziraphale squeaked a little at that.

He was dragging it out a little, still stroking at Aziraphale's belly, his thighs. Skirting around things. He'd not been down on him before. Luke again, fucking things up for him. Luke had liked crowding him against walls, into corners. Trapping him and just taking. So yeah, Crowley had issues.

Aziraphale was different though. Sometimes Crowley wanted to cry, just thinking of how much he loved and trusted him. So he ducked his head down, and gave a tentative lick to the angel's half-hard cock.

It didn't taste like Luke's. With that encouragement, Crowley arranged himself more comfortably, and set to work.

He sucked just the head in first, and flicked his tongue over it a few times. Aziraphale gave a full-body shiver, and moaned appreciatively. _Fuck_. Crowley had forgotten the sheer pleasure of giving himself like this. Knowing he was wanted.

He took Aziraphale deeper. Remembered how to tease a little, and then give it his all. At some point Aziraphale found and clutched at his hand. Crowley squeezed back.

Aziraphale kept giving little _wiggles_. It was fucking intoxicating, and Crowley found himself sucking harder, and squeezing his own thighs together to find some relief. He'd lost all track of how long he'd been bent between his angel's legs, devoting himself to pleasure.

He could feel Aziraphale tensing up though, giving little upward jerks into his mouth. Crowley really fucking wanted it now. He hollowed his cheeks out and sucked for all he was worth.

Aziraphale's come was salt-sweet. Very moreish. Or at least, Crowley knew he definitely wanted to do this again. After he'd swallowed down every drop, he rested his cheek against the angel's thigh, wanting to stay close.

He was pretty fucking surprised at how well that had gone.

After a few minutes, he felt a tug at his hand.

“Come up here, love.”

Aziraphale was all smiles now. Crowley felt a stab of happiness. He'd done that.

“You know, you never fail to astound me.”

“Was only a blowjob...”

That earned him a little shove. “That's _not_ what I meant. From the moment I met you, I knew you would be special.”

“Angel, when you met me I was shoplifting. _Unsuccessfully_.”

“Yes, but... I still knew. That you were important.”

“Shut _up_. Eat your fucking biscuits, I know you brought them up with us.”

Aziraphale acquiesced, and ate his fucking biscuits. He still managed to rustle the packet obnoxiously though.

Later Crowley fell apart again, just a little. He had a coffee date with Anathema, who never failed to see right through him.

“I just... I'm all over the place. One minute I'm fine, and then I'm a fucking _mess_. This past month I've just felt out of control. It wasn't like that before.”

“Crowley... You're feeling normal human reactions. You've stopped numbing yourself, that's all. It's a _good_ thing.

“Really?”

“ _Definitely_. You'll work your way through this, trust me.”

He really did trust her. Talk drifted. She was thinking of marrying Newt.2 Maybe getting a cat.

She gently asked if he still needed that space on the sofa.

“I... I dunno. I've been looking for a place, but everywhere's so fucking awful. Can't afford a place on my own, but I'm scared of living with strange people. So yeah. Something'll come up though.”

Anathema gave him one of those looks, as if she was cross-examining his soul.

“I know just what to do.”

1On reflection, Aziraphale might admit that spiking his rubbish with stink bombs and gone off kippers had been a little childish

2“Did he ask?” “That's not a requirement”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: _licks enthusiastically_


	15. Gingernuts

Crowley was lurking amongst the shelves when Anathema marched into the shop. He still couldn't work up the courage to be behind the till again. And seeing the grim determination on Anathema's face, he wasn't altogether sorry.

She was at the till now, slamming something down onto the table.

“What's this, my dear?” Aziraphale had put on his 'polite bemusement' face, with voice to match.

“It's Crowley's toothbrush.”

“Oh?” More bemusement, even more polite.

“He's moving in with you.” And with that, she shoved the toothbrush over, narrowly avoiding several small pot plants.

Fuck, he was actually going to have to deal with this. So Crowley emerged from the shelves, and reluctantly made his way to the till.

“Anathema, you can't just – he doesn't _want_ that.” Crowley could feel his face flushing with shame.

Aziraphale picked up the toothbrush. “Actually, I'd love it. Crowley, if you want it too then I'd love nothing better.”

“Ngk.”

“ _Great!_ Newt's in the car, with the rest of your stuff.” Anathema left, looking abominably smug.

“Crowley, you do... You want this with me?”

Right. Actual words time. He could absolutely do this.

“...Yeah, Angel.” His voice sounded fucking pathetic, vulnerable and fragile. This was _way_ too overwhelming.

“Oh, _Crowley_...” Aziraphale squeezed him into a hug. “Well, I think this calls for a celebration. You go sit on the sofa, and I'll bring some things through."

Aziraphale fucking helped him through to the sofa, for the n-th time. Then he bustled into the kitchen, and clattered with the crockery.

He came back through to the back room at the same time as Anathema wandered in from the shop. She dumped a half-empty sports bag on the floor.

“Is that all, my dear?”

“Yep! That's all. I'm off, you two have fun. Call me if you need me!” And then she _ruffled Crowley's hair,_ and promptly fucked off again as if she hadn't just rearranged Crowley's entire life.

“Well! I fancied some gingernuts. _Do_ help yourself.”1

Having made sure Crowley had taken not one but two biscuits, Aziraphale busied himself with the teapot.

“Is that tea?” The tea looked awfully pale.

“No, dearest. It's gin. Alright?”

“Yeah... No complaints here!” How the _fuck_ did Aziraphale always know when and how to look after him?

Aziraphale was fiddling with the toothbrush, practically fondling it.

“Angel, you know I've already got a toothbrush here, right?”

“Oh yes, I know. I was thinking of having this one framed.

“It's a toothbrush. You can't frame a _toothbrush_.”

“I can if I _want_ to,” Aziraphale pouted.

“You're an absolute maniac. Cheers!”

They clanked teacups, and drank.

It proved to be a very pleasant afternoon. Aziraphale pushed the boundaries of biscuit dunking,2 and they unpacked the remainder of Crowley's earthly belongings.3

“What you need, Crowley, is more _stuff_.”

“I don't need _stuff_.”

“ _Plants_. You need more _plants_.” Aziraphale looked triumphant at making this irrefutable point.

“There's no _room!_ There are _six_ plants on that table.” Crowley gestured pointedly, and sloshed gin on his jeans.

Once Aziraphale was done sucking gin out of Crowley's jeans,4 he attempted to look more serious.

“I will _make_ room. The storage room. I'll empty it tomorrow. You can have _plants_ , and a _chair_ , and...” Aziraphale struggled to voice what else Crowley might want. “Do you think we could put turf down instead of a carpet?”

“You're fucking _nuts_ , Angel. C'mere.”

They ended up drunk-napping on the sofa together, waking several hours later slightly more sober, and a lot more dehydrated.

Aziraphale refilled the teapot, with actual tea this time.

“Angel, you're a _lifesaver_.” Crowley slurped his tea, and crunched another biscuit in a gesture of gratitude. The tea was lapsang souchong again, and Crowley's heart _melted_.

Judging by the little appreciative sounds, Aziraphale was enjoying his tea too. The angel took a last sip from his cup, and set it down coyly.

“Crowley, may I kiss you?”

“You don't have to ask _each time_ , Angel...”

Aziraphale glared a little. “I don't see why not.”

Ok. Crowley was _really_ glad he was sober now.

“Angel. I appreciate how much you look out for me. But we _live_ together now, apparently, and you don't have to be treading on eggshells all the time. I'd rather you just kissed me.”

“But what if – what if you don't want to?”

“I _trust_ you, Aziraphale. You know me so well...” Crowley trailed off for a minute. “I know you'd never hurt me deliberately. You – I need you to trust me. I'll _tell_ you if I don't want something. I think you'd know anyway. So, can we just try?”

Aziraphale looked contemplative as he poured them more tea.

“Just with kissing?”

“Just kissing.”

“Alright, my dear. We'll try it.” And then he was leaning in oh so slowly, and kissing Crowley with a smokey tang in his mouth. Delicious.

_Fuck_. Being this happy was almost unbearable. Like he shouldn't be allowed it. But Aziraphale was _his_. He was allowed this.

“Would you like me to...?” Aziraphale glanced down at Crowley's crotch, which apparently had take on a life of its own. Crowley hadn't even noticed how he'd been giving minute rolls of his hips as Aziraphale kissed him.

“Sure,” Crowley gasped.

Aziraphale had to practically peel his still-wet jeans off. They got there in the end though, and Crowley felt almost dizzy at the sight of the angel knelt between his legs.

He was a bit more confused when said angel handed him a gingernut biscuit though.

“Eat.”

Crowley obediently took a bite out of the biscuit, and started chewing just as Aziraphale sank his mouth down on his cock. _Shit_.

It was probably too late in the day to consider this, but if that bastard angel gave him a fucking food fetish, Crowley was going to be _furious_.

He took another bite of the biscuit anyway.

1Crowley always did. He couldn't cope with the look of disappointment Aziraphale would give otherwise.

2“I don't see why I _can't_ dunk my gingernuts in gin. See look, delicious!”

3Two t-shirts, and half a pair of socks

4“Waste not, want not!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: I am available for fetish-giving at any time...


	16. Epilogue: Jammy Dodgers again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this final insight into Crowley and Aziraphale's deeply harmonious relationship...

Aziraphale meandered into the kitchen, and paused on the threshold.

“Oh Crowley, that smells delicious.” Then, more sharply, “You haven't been _cheating_ on me again, have you?”1

“ _No_ , Angel, these are for you.” Crowley obligingly whipped off the tea towel, to show two dozen handmade jammy dodgers. “I sieved the jam and everything.”

“Oh, _Crowley_... They're beautiful. Have you tried one?”

“They're for you, Angel.”

“Oh, but you _must_ try one first. It's chef's prerogative!”

_Shit_. Crowley had been planning on bringing this up for at least three weeks,2 but had never quite managed to push himself into it until now.

“Angel... You know I don't actually _like_ biscuits, right?”

Aziraphale was overcome with peals of laughter. “Oh, I _know_. But, it's just you pull the most _adorable_ faces... Yes, just like that! All grumpy and cross.”

_Right_. “You _knew?_ And all this time you were just _laughing_ at me?” It was very much time to declare war.

Crowley grabbed the cooling rack full of biscuits, and tugged it across the kitchen counter towards himself.

“You are not getting a _single one_ of these biscuits.” And at that, he started mercilessly shovelling jammy dodgers into his mouth.

“No no no, you mustn't! You _beast_ , put them down!” Aziraphale rushed around the counter, to defend his biscuits.

“Mmph phm _merph_ shh, phrrm mraarshmrd.”3 Crowley had managed three and a quarter biscuits already.

Crowley may have had the initial advantage, but Aziraphale was a biscuit-eating _athlete_. He deftly nommed four of the remaining biscuits before Crowley could even blink. Both of them lost some time in a fruitless stand off stemming from Crowley's taunting with a biscuit held aloft, taking advantage of their natural height difference. The angel initially fell for the ruse, jumping and grabbing at the prize; ignoring the more than a dozen biscuits still remaining on the rack.4

That stalemate was broken by Aziraphale licking a wide stripe up Crowley's face. In the resulting confusion, the angel managed to squirrel away no less than five biscuits in his cheeks, hamster-style.

They continued trading very muffled insults, spraying crumbs all over the floor, kitchen counter, and each other, until all twenty-four biscuits were gone.

Hysteria over, Crowley took a moment to clear his mouth of the unpleasantly claggy biscuit mush before speaking.

“Happy anniversary, Angel.”

When the mice ventured upstairs later on, they would have an absolute _field_ day.

1Crowley had heartlessly made Anathema a red velvet cake the month before. It was her birthday

2Or possibly months. Time flies when you're head over heels...

3“You deserve this, you bastard”

4The biscuit held by your enemy is automatically the best biscuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valvopus: tempt you to one more biscuit? It's got jam in!!


End file.
